"Let's go find out," urged Ernest.
The three men, Peter trailing at the rear, started hurriedly along the half obliterated trail toward the ranch.
The stillness after the day of warfare was heavenly. The violet of the sky had changed to the blue of larkspur, that now was shot with lacey streamers, rose pink from the setting sun. An oriole, balancing itself on Dick's line fence, poured forth a melody of transporting sweetness.
"O, by Jove!" exclaimed Roger suddenly, "look at Dick's alfalfa!"
The oriole fluttered away as they approached the fence. The field had not drifted badly. The draw to the north had prevented that. But the bright green shadow on the yellow sand of which Gustav had told them in the morning, was no more. A huge blight lay on the field with every tender plant blackened and dead.
"Poor old Dick!" groaned Ernest. Then he added plaintively, "But he's no tenderfoot. He knows desert storms. Why did he attempt it?"
"A storm like this, this time of year, is unheard of," said Von Minden. "Close to the mountain like this, Dick was choosing a good spot. See there are few drifts. Poor fellow!"
There were actual tears in Ernest's blue eyes as he looked at the blackened field. "Let's get to the girls," he urged.
At the corral gate they met Gustav.
"What's the trouble, Gustav?" cried Roger.